Close Encounters of the Mahogany Kind
by Utterly Riddikulus
Summary: A mysterious voice is haunting Ron in the Gryffindor common room! But what could it be?


**That Riddikulus Person's Highly Personal Disclaimer**: Harry Potter is the product of J.K. Rowling's brilliant mind, and she can keep him for all I care because OotP turned him into an irritating little brat. That said, any creative license I take is a product of my own insanity, which can be blamed in part on the members of Monty Python.

Subsequent chapters will be added as they come to mind.

In the middle of the Gryffindor common room stood a table. It was made of a rich, velvety timber sanded so perfectly that no essays hurriedly scrawled upon it were ever punctured by splinters. The smooth mahogany top was surrounded by intricate molding, and on its corners were beautifully carved lion heads that were bewitched to roar at passersby, and even, on occasion, nibble at a bewildered student's robes.

The table was exquisite, yes, and no finer a table had ever before been seen in all of Hogwarts.

And Ronald Weasley was now finding himself mercilessly pounding his fist on its hard surface.

"Do you mind, mate?" an irritated, high-pitched voice whined.

Ron looked around the common room. Nobody with a voice like that was there, save for Hermione, who was sitting in a large, cushy armchair reading yet another large tome from the library—and _she_ wouldn't have called him "mate."

He cautiously lifted his hand from the table. His pinky was now the color of a beet, and the heel of his hand was slightly bruised. "Where _are_ you?" was his reply.

"Where do you think I am, you imbecile?" the voice whined again.

Ron's eyes frantically darted all around the room. It wasn't Parvati or Ginny, it couldn't have been Fred and George (for they were no longer students), and it most certainly wasn't Malfoy, though heaven knows Ron was contemplating the idea.

"Look, I don't know _who_ you are, or _what_ you are for that matter, but I must say I would sure like to know," his voice, once shaking like a leaf, was now about as hard as a rubber band. "I'd like to know _now_, too, if you wouldn't mind."

The voice was becoming even more irritated. "If you had half a brain, you would have figured it out by now. It really _is_ no wonder you've been beating me so! You're so stupid I bet you couldn't even write a scroll on Quidditch without that bucktoothed girl's help!"

Not that the voice hadn't been rude before, but now it was just plain insulting. "Stop that!" Ron yelled. "I'm not stupid. I play the best game of Wizard's Chess Hogwarts has ever seen!"

"I say, you Weasleys get more and more full of yourself with each generation!" the voice snapped rather nastily.

Ron could no longer take it. He began to repeatedly pound the table again, with such a growl in his throat that it may have even made Fluffy the three-headed dog run away whimpering. "I'm not listening!"

"You still don't know who I am, do you?" the voice said, and in such a way that you just knew he was sneering. "Or what I am, rather," he paused. "Ever wonder where those holes in your lumpy maroon sweaters come from?"

Ron thought over this for a moment. "No, but if you know who puts them there, could you tell him thank you, please? Gives me an excellent excuse not to wear them, it does!"

"You like them?" the voice said, obviously disappointed. "Those were my way of punishing you! You and all of the other students here, you've made me suffer so badly! Writing your mindless essays, paying no heed to_ where_ you're writing them! And pounding! You pound on me and my brothers because you're so stupid you can't continue writing your essay! Are you honestly that horrible that you wouldn't even give me the pleasure of ruining your apparel after all you do to me?"

"WHO ARE YOU?" Ron bellowed, finally unleashing the rage that was making him near the point of tipping the table over. He grabbed the edge of the table and began to shake it.

The voice was no longer whiny. In fact, it was very deep and intense as it let out a long, "ROOOOAAAAAAAR!"

Ron cringed, fingernails digging deep into the table. He nervously crouched down, and found himself eye-to-eye with a carved wooden lion.

"The name's Beauregard," the lion said, whiny voice now returned. "Perhaps you're not as dimwitted as I thought."


End file.
